Wistril Compleat

  WISTRIL COMPLEAT

  Frank Tuttle

  Published by Sizzling Lizard Press at Smashwords

  Copyright 2011 Sizzling Lizard Press

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  Cover Art by Beth Murray ©2009

  Table of Contents

  Foreword

  Wistril Besieged

  Wistril Afloat

  Wistril Betrothed

  Other Tuttle Titles

  Foreword

  I knew the first time Wistril bellowed from behind his desk that I'd be writing several stories about the rotund wizard. Wistril represents a side of wizardry I see too little of, that of the grumpy, reclusive academic.

  All poor Wistril wants out of life is a quiet place to continue his research, a steady supply of his favorite Upland persimmon beer, and four large meals a day. You won't find Wistril out wandering the countryside on heroic quests. He steadfastly refuses to enter the employ of monarchs or nobles. He has little or no patience even for his fellow wizards, with whom he communicates only infrequently and even then via scrying glass.

  But like most of us, what Wistril wants and what Wistril gets are two very different things.

  First, there's Kern. Kern is Wistril's apprentice; how Wistril wound up with an apprentice at all is anyone's guess, and how he wound up with the sarcastic Kern is a mystery even to me. But I hope you'll agree that together Wistril and Kern make up a formidable (and entertaining) team.

  That's a big part of the series. Wistril bellows. Kern quips. But amid all the bluster, there's a genuine respect between them. And a strong friendship.

  Take Wistril and Kern, set them high atop a mountain in down-at-the-heels Castle Kauph. Add Sir Knobby, faithful gargoyle jack of all trades and Cook and three hundred assorted other gargoyle staff and at least that number of venerable haunts.

  Do all that, toss in some trouble, and you've got the book you're reading. I hope you enjoy it.

  Oh, and the title -- Wistril Compleat. Does that mean there will never be another Wistril story?

  I wouldn't count on it. Wizards have a way of popping back up at surprising times. I can almost hear Wistril bellowing now -- "Confound it, are you never going to finish that new story?"

  I'd better go and do as he says. It is unwise, as they say, to provoke the displeasure of wizards.

  Questions? Comments? Just want to say hello? Then head on over to www.franktuttle.com and see what Frank is up to now. Or email Frank atfranktuttle@franktuttle.com.

  Wistril Besieged

  by Frank Tuttle

  The torches hurled on the tiny inn's wood-shingled roof, which should have touched off an inferno with the first lick of flame, merely guttered and went out. The oil splashed on the wooden walls of the leaning, ancient structure steadfastly refused to ignite. Even the thin, bubbled glass window set crookedly in the inn's warped front door defied a burly sergeant's attempts to shatter it with a five-pound battle hammer.

  The Captain glared while mouthing the words carved into the inn's door frame. The Goat's Head Inn, they read. The Goat's Head in of Dervanny, home of the Great Wizard Wistril.

  The Captain's men -- six hundred Prissic mercenaries left unemployed after the fall of Imperial Kent -- wandered uneasily through the deserted village. Simple wooden doors could neither be kicked in nor hacked apart; window-shutters, clasped shut only with bits of string, resisted sword and mace alike.

  The sergeant with the hammer gave up on the inn's windowpane and unleashed a savage kick at one of the three weather-beaten rocking chairs lined up on the inn's narrow porch. The chair didn't budge. The Captain heard a wet crunching sound from within the sergeant's boot.

  While the sergeant howled and flailed, the Captain lifted his gaze above the inn's roof-top and toward the squat range of mountain peaks to the west. There, nearly atop the tallest peak -- was that a castle?

  The Captain squinted and raised a spyglass.

  "I thought so," he grumbled. Four towers, four walls, arched entryway over retracting ramp -- a wizard's dwelling. "Lieutenant!"

  "Yes, sir?"

  "Collect the men. Bring the siege works forward."

  "Yes sir. Shall we start with the inn or the church?"

  "Neither," said the Captain, pointing to the castle and the thin ribbon of road that wound toward it. "Until we deal with yonder wizard."

  Goats bleated. Cows mooed. Dogs barked. Worst of all, children laughed and shouted.

  "Close that window," said Wistril in exasperation. "And bring me another beer. This one is flat."

  Kern rose from his writing-desk, stretched, and crossed to the window. A shrieking mob of children charged by below, pursued by the gangling, knock-kneed gargoyle that normally lurked about the south-east tower furnace.

  One of the children tripped on the hem of his too-long robe. The gargoyle tapped the child gently on the head, hooted in glee, and shambled away.

  "Lorris is it!" cried the children. "Watch out! Lorris is it!"

  "Close that window!" roared Wistril from behind his desk. "I can no longer abide that racket." The rotund sorcerer sighed and shook his head. "The whole populace of Dervanny has taken refuge in my rose-garden. My courtyard smells like a barnyard. And my fool apprentice does nothing but stand in front of the very window I've twice asked him to close."

  Kern closed the window. "I'm overcome with pity for you, Master," he said. "Noisy children, smelly animals, and flat beer. It's inspiring, how you bear up under such an enormous burden. Never a complaint or petty outburst -- "

  Wistril banged his half-filled mug down on the desk. "Apprentice Kern. Beer. Now."

  Kern took up the mug and backed toward the door with a bow. "Yes, Your Majesty."

  "While you're out, call in the scouts. I want to know if that infernal army has given up and moved on yet."

  "I'll bet a week's pay they haven't," said Kern, pausing at the door. "Another week's pay says they won't just 'move on' if they do give up on sacking Dervanny. How long can you keep the stasis spell on the village, Master? And what of your Oath of Peace?"

  Wistril pondered his desk-top and said nothing until Kern shrugged and opened the door. A pair of bedraggled gargoyles stood in the hall. The tallest gargoyle's knobby fist was poised to knock.

  Kern stepped aside. The gargoyles shuffled past, wings drooping, eyes downcast. Kern shook his head. "Looks like I won my bet," he said to Wistril. "Shall I begin drafting a full and unconditional surrender?"

  Wistril's fingers blurred and sparked. Kern blinked, and found himself in the cellar, two steps from a beer-keg.

  "Show-off," he muttered.

  "Halt."

  The Captain waited for the dust to settle. Men coughed, grumbled, shifted their packs. Horses shuffled nervously to and fro.

  "Lieutenant. We'll camp here for the night and start up the mountain at dawn. Post the guards."

  The Lieutenant nodded. Ahead, the road vanished beneath a thick line of towering, swaying pines.

  The wind gusted suddenly, filling the forest with a thousand dry wooden rustles that sounded like soft, malicious whispering. The wind waned and died.

  The whispers, though, grew louder, more distinct. The Lieutenant heard one word emerge from the soft babble. With a chill, he realized that his name was being called out, whispered over and over like some dire incantation.

  "Lieutenant!" snapped the Capta
in. "Post the guards."

  "Yes, sir. At once." The Lieutenant wheeled his mount, eager to ride away from the shadowed, whispering trees. As he rose, the Lieutenant saw scores of nervous faces lift up toward the trees as if they, too, heard their names in the wind.

  "That's a nice touch, those voices," said Kern, tapping the crystal ball on the desk. "How'd you learn their names?"

  "I didn't," said Wistril. "Each voice repeats a random set of syllables. Every utterance is nonsense, but approximately one in every four listeners will find words amid the babble -- most often, their own name."

  Wistril gestured and the image in the crystal vanished. "The sun sets in twenty minutes, apprentice," he said. "We shall need the equipment in the north tower for the remainder of the night's activities. Open the tower. Engage the scrying spells."

  Kern nodded. "Straightaway. But before the festivities begin, I have a question."

  "Be brief."

  "Do you have anything up your sleeve beside phantom voices and will-o-the-wisps? And, if so, can you use it without breaking your Oath?"

  Wistril shook his head. "You sadden me, apprentice. Are you so certain we shall fail?"

  "Not certain. Just worried. I'm worried because you intend to show yonder band of murderers things that would send a sane man fleeing back to the Sea. I'm worried there isn't a sane man among them."

  "I see." Wistril glanced at the whirling, intricate brass goblin-clock on the book-shelf. "Sunset is in eighteen minutes," he said.

  Kern stamped out of the study. He heard the slap of small, bare feet echo down the empty hall followed by snatches of childish laughter. A stern adult voice admonished the child to be quiet, lest they "distract the good Mage from his labors and our defense."

  Kern hurried toward the tower, wondering just how secure the villagers would feel if they knew the good Mage's powers were bound by an oath of strict non-violence.

  The tower was cold, dark, and thoroughly haunted. "Wake up, gents," said Kern. "We've got a long night ahead."

  The small, cheerless cook fire crackled and spat. The Lieutenant stared into the flames and tried to ignore the whispers in the pines.

  An ember popped, raising a shower of sparks high into the night. The Lieutenant watched the sparks dance until he realized Captain Garrel was staring at him.

  "You still hear the voices, don't you?" said the Captain.

  "I was mistaken," said the Lieutenant. "It was just the wind."

  The Captain smiled, his wide, scarred face demonic in the flickering firelight. "I hear them too, Lieutenant," he said. "Voices calling my name. It's the wizard. Wants to unnerve us. Wants us to turn back."

  Shouts sounded from the water-wagons. The Lieutenant whirled, but saw only soldiers scrambling for weapons and cover.

  Sentry horns joined the shouting.

  "Clever," muttered the Captain. The Lieutenant turned, sword drawn, to find the column of smoke from the cook fire growing thicker, darker. The smoke spun and writhed -- and took on the form of a shrouded, skeletal specter with red, burning eyes.

  The smoke-phantom solidified, gave a high, airy wail, and sailed away from the cook fire.

  "Sir -- " began the Lieutenant.

  "Order the men to put down their weapons before they kill each other," said the Captain, ignoring a phantom that gibbered at his shoulder.

  The Lieutenant gaped. "Disarm? Now?"

  The Captain waved his hand through the phantom. It shrieked and darted away. "That's what I said, soldier. Sergeant!" he bellowed, rising and striding forward. "Get those fools away from that catapult!"

  The Captain vanished into the mob. Darting, keening specters filled the air above the camp. More rose, despite frantic efforts to douse every cook fire and every torch.

  A catapult threw, hurling a loose bundle of short steel-tipped spears arcing over the camp. Phantoms howled with glee, pierced but undaunted.

  The Lieutenant sheathed his blade and shouldered his way into the panicked ranks, dodging swords and wobbling flights of arrows as he went. Mad laughter began to sound from the trees, and with it snatches of strange, discordant music.

  "Put down your weapons!" he shouted, his voice lost in the din. "Disarm! Form up!"

  Lightning shattered the cloudless, starry sky. Revealed in the flash was a face--a face so enormous it stretched halfway across the sky. More lightning flared, and in it the Lieutenant saw a massive fist, raised and poised to strike.

  The ground shook with impossible thunder. Men leaped beneath wagons or huddled under collapsed tents. Another catapult creaked and threw despite the Captain's furious roar for calm.

  The Lieutenant shouted himself hoarse, swatted phantoms, and prayed for sunrise.

  Kern squinted at the bright morning sunlight that poured from the scrying ball and shook his head. "They've started up our mountain, Master," he said. "Notice how I didn't say 'The army has fled' or 'Looks like we scared them back to the Sea.'"

  "So noted, apprentice."

  A soft knock sounded at the tower door. "That will be the staff," said Kern. "They'll be curious as to whether we were successful."

  "Then attend to them," said Wistril, rubbing his eyes. "I must rest. While I do so, open the east tower and see to my breakfast."

  "As you wish, Your Fearsomeness."

  Wistril closed his eyes, folded his hands over his belly, and began to glow. Kern hurried to the door, took a deep breath, and met the pair of gargoyles with a triumphant grin.

  He knew neither gargoyle believed a word he said.

  "Sorcery. All illusion, Lieutenant," said the Captain. "Shadows and smokes and tricks of the light. No substance. No threat."

  The Lieutenant nodded. "Yes, sir."

  "Remember that fool scrap of a wizard that deserted at Varsh? Pah," snorted the Captain. "Waste of rations, he was."

  "Yes, sir."

  The Captain laughed. "You'll see. Yon wizard is just the same. He'll wave his fat fingers and conjure up all kinds of dread monsters right up until the time we break down his doors. Then you'll see. Smoke and shadows, soldier. Nothing more."

  The Lieutenant nodded absently and watched the dragon's immense shadow slide across the road. One, two, three -- it took three full seconds for the mere shadow of the beast to cross him.

  The Lieutenant shivered. Above, the dragon banked, gave a long, hissing cry, and made another pass over the advancing troops. Just out of sight, another tree-top crashed to the ground, severed by a casual swipe of the dragon's armored tail.

  The Lieutenant mumbled soothingly to his nervous mount and peered into the forest. The trees still whispered his name, but now heard a tone of urgency in the airy voices. Run, they said. Run, while there is still time.

  "Shadows and smoke," chuckled the Captain. "Real dragons get hungry."

  The Lieutenant spurred his horse and shivered as another long shadow silently engulfed him.

  "They haven't turned back, Master," said Kern, pacing. "There's a dragon -- an unusually large dragon -- swooping right above their helmets, and they haven't so much as started marching out of step."

  "Nonsense," said Wistril, wiping beer from his lips. "Twenty deserted last night. Hundreds more would have slipped away, had not that maniac posted archers at the rear."

  Kern stopped his pacing at Wistril's desk. "Master," he said, "That maniac is aware that everything he's seen has been an illusion. He isn't frightened. Not even by your dragon, which I'll admit is truly wondrous."

  "The dragon is indeed impressive," said Wistril with a small smile. "I admit I expected a more ardent reaction to it, but my plan has not suffered for lack of it."

  "Master," said Kern. "This plan. Does it involve our slipping quietly out the back way, changing our names, and taking up residence in another part of the Kingdom?"

  "Certainly not."

  Kern sighed. "Then I suppose I'd better open the west tower."

  "At once," replied Wistril, his tone injured. "And warn the villagers and staff to stay indoors until f
urther notice."

  "As you wish, Oh Master of Pugilistic Cantrips," said Kern on his way to the door. "But you will keep my plan in mind, won't you?"

  "I should turn you into a jackass," said Wistril from behind his beer-mug, "so your braying tongue would at last have a proper body."

  Kern was careful not to slam the door.

  The Captain squinted and raised the spyglass. "We'll be at his gates before dusk," he said. "and inside them an hour after that."

  "Yes, sir," mumbled the Lieutenant, counting dragons. "Twenty-seven," he whispered.

  "What did you say, soldier?"

  "Nothing," said the Lieutenant. "Nothing at all." He forced his eyes from the sky, only to be confronted by the darting mob of dragon-shadows on the ground.

  "Shadows and smoke, soldier," said the Captain, smiling. "Nothing to fear. You'll see."

  Far above, a dragon screeched, and was quickly answered. The Lieutenant spurred his horse and kept his eyes on the road.

  "That's it? More dragons?" Kern mopped his brow and collapsed into an oft-patched armchair. "Master, if one big dragon didn't scare them, what makes you think twenty small ones will?"

  Wistril lifted an eyebrow. "Your attention wandered twice during the primary focal incantation." He snapped his fingers. Two mugs of foaming Upland beer appeared on the worktable. "Nevertheless, apprentice, you did well. I commend you. You may drink."

  Kern stared, wide-eyed. He tapped the big scrying glass that hung from chains above the table. "They're an hour from the bridge, Master. They've got catapults, scaling ladders, siege towers, and who knows what else. We've got a sky full of pretend dragons and a pair of magic beer-mugs. You'll forgive me if I find myself more frightened than thirsty."